Page 58 of Rise of a Fallen Man

“Sorry, I interrupted you. I just...” I felt suddenly so lost, like I’d been running tirelessly and resolutely along a predetermined path, only for it to disappear on me unexpectedly.

He frowned, taking a step toward me.

“What is it, Princess? What’s wrong?”

The kindness in his voice undid me. All the emotions of the past few weeks—the uncertainty, the anger, the guilt, the fear, the helplessness, everything I’d pushed down and held in—rushed out at once.

My cheeks flared with heat. My fists unclenched, releasing my skirts. Tears burned my eyes.

“I... Salas, my father...” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, afraid the mentioning of my father’s broken body would break me too.

“Come here, sweetheart.” He opened his arms for me, and I ran into their shelter without a moment of doubt or hesitation.

“Father isn’t well, Salas,” I sobbed into his shirt.

It wasn’t the shirt that I gave him, I noted, but a much nicer one, from an expensive silk in a glossy satin weave with buttons carved from iridescent mother-of-pearl in a golden setting.

He stroked my back, holding me in a hug that felt like no evil could penetrate.

“How can I help?” he asked simply, his cheek pressed to the side of my head.

He was helping already, and he didn’t even know how much. Slowly, I could breathe again. I could talk.

“It happened this morning,” I muttered against his chest. “He fell from his horse. Then got trampled by its hooves. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. A punctured lung...” Through tears and only in short, fragmented sentences, but I talked while he kept all my pieces together in his big, strong arms, preventing me from falling apart completely. “They’re fixing him. They know what they’re doing. The witches are smart.”

“They are.” He glided a reassuring hand over my hair. “The royal witch must be at least as good as the one we have here. And our witch did wonders when healing my wounds.”

“Are they healed?” I sniffled, looking up.

My glasses fogged up with my tears, and he moved them up to my head, allowing me to see his face.

“All healed.” He smiled. “As good as new, just with a couple of scars left that Lerrel says look amazing in the arena.” Reaching back, he took a freshly washed handkerchief from the pile of clean laundry in the basket, then wiped my tears off mycheeks. “The healing witches are women of high intelligence and stellar education. Your father is in good hands.”

“They are. And he is.” I nodded, clutching the shirt over his chest. I had no strength to leave the safety of his arms yet. “Only they don’t know everything, Salas. The horse kicked him in his groin, too, and all the witches can do is just amputate...” My voice broke off again.

I closed my eyes and pressed the side of my face to his chest, finding his heartbeat. Strong, measured beat seemed to come way too fast for his size, but its rhythm and the warmth of his body soothed me, anyway.

“Is amputation the only option?” he asked carefully.

“No. I mean, I don’t know... But they can’t just cut it off like that. Not without at least trying a reconstruction. Except that they don’t know how to do it. They wouldn’t admit it, but I know they haven’t been taught. Salas.” I looked up at him again. “Do you know someone who can help?”

Once again, the irony didn’t escape me. One of the most powerful women in the queendom was pleading for help with the man who had no right to even own a home in his name. But that was only what it looked like on the outside.

In reality, I felt helpless, not powerful. And Salas had always been the strongest person I knew. It wasn’t just his physical strength, but the strength of his character too. He was solid, honest, and real in every way. And I used him as my source of strength, again and again.

I didn’t even have it in me to feel guilty about taking his support, because the more I took, the more he seemed to have.

“You had a surgery done yourself,” I said.

“I had. But I would advise everyone to stay away from the charlatan warlock who treated me.”

“There must be someone better.” I held on to every shred of hope. “The games master said that Regit had a successful surgery just a few days ago.”

“Will you trust a warlock to treat the king?” he asked uncertainly.

“If you vouch for him.”

He shook his head.

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